I finally made it to Devon after what felt like the world's slowest drive down the A38. We'd set off from Bristol full of beans, sandwiches packed and podcasts queued up, but about halfway in, disaster struck – a rogue sheep decided to play chicken with the car right in the middle of Dartmoor. Heart in mouth, I slammed on the brakes, and we all burst out laughing as it scarpered off into the mist. Typical Devon welcome, that – a bit of drama to remind you life's not all motorways.

Pulling into Torcross just as the sun dipped towards Start Point, I felt that proper holiday buzz kicking in. The apartment was this cosy little gem, all tucked away with a lived-in charm that screamed "relax here". First impressions? Spot on. The garden out back was the star – a lush patch of green overlooking the bay, with the sea breeze whispering through the hedges. We dumped the bags, cracked open a bottle of local cider, and just... breathed.

The joy of it all was doing sod all, really. No grand plans, no ticking off lists. Mornings started lazy, with coffee on the patio watching fishing boats bob in the bay. I'd flop into one of those loungers with a battered paperback – some mindless thriller I'd picked up at a service station – and lose hours to the plot while the world slowed right down. Lunch was whatever we fancied: fresh pasties from the village shop, eaten al fresco with crumbs flying everywhere. Afternoons blurred into garden lounging; the kids (well, my lot, aged 12 and 15) sprawled on blankets inventing daft games with sticks, while I dozed off under the parasol, waking only when a gull squawked overhead.

One evening, as the sun turned the sea to gold, I had a proper moment. Sat there with my book forgotten, feet up, listening to the waves crash on the beach below. It hit me – back home, I'm always rushing, faffing with emails and deadlines. Here? Time stretched out like warm toffee. No guilt about "making the most of it". Just being. I chuckled to myself thinking how I'd once crammed a holiday into hikes and cream teas; what a mug. This was proper recharging – the gentle art of bugger all.

We did venture out once or twice, just a short wander to the beach for a paddle in the shallows or fish and chips from the hut at Beesands, eaten on the pebbles with sand between our toes. Evenings back in the garden meant barbecues that were more chat than cooking, stars popping out over Slapton Ley. By the last day, I didn't want to pack. Driving away, windows down, I felt lighter, like Devon had ironed out the creases.

If you're after a break where the highlight is savouring the nothing-much, this corner of South Devon delivers. Can't wait to go back and do even less.